Gooeylicious

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Sleepytime blews

For those who have no compunction about their proclivities to diddle, a question, s'il tu plait: Keeping in mind that all things are possible when it comes to rubbing the magic lamp, have you ever tossed one off while sleeping (of which you're aware)? Now, taking it one step further, has a partner ever tossed one off while sleeping with you in close proximity*? Did it squick you out?

No particular reason for asking -- just pandering to Wad's assertion that things are getting boring up in here. And also? Traumatizing the parents of children who're looking up "Aladdin" on the worldwideinternetwebbunny: "Mommy? What's a 'diddle'?"

*When I say "you in close proximity," what I really mean is "parts of your ready, willing and able bod are touching the tosser, so if s/he doesn't know you're there, chances are they've slipped into a coma and probably need medical attention this very instant."Oh, whatEVER.

EWK is so good to me: Last night, he fixed us a toona noona with -- how scintillating! -- artichoke hearts and a dollop of sour cream mixed in for good measure, and then we hunkered down and watched Desperate Housewives and Boston Legal. Yum yum.

So, I've spent the better part of the weekend trying to mull over how I was going to tell y'all about this, but I've been rather uninspired and, more to the point, embarassed; in fact, I've already been taken to task by EWK and Tara over the whole deal. But what's that thing they say about recovery? The first step is admitting your shit? Horror after the jump:

I discovered some very unsettling (at least to me) news in the wee hours of Saturday morning: The one guy? Is a Republican. Now, you might be wondering why this is such a huge deal, and it's not ... sort of. I mean, I've known him for going to be seven years in June and have been involved with him for what's going to be six in September, so for one, how could I have missed this fact when I know just about everything else there is to know about the guy, right!?!? But that's a total aside to the real disaster -- you know, the part when I said that Oprah doesn't have an agenda.

If you felt the earth jump off its axis 5:30 a.m. Saturday morning, that would be because "Oprah doesn't have an agenda" came out of my mouth, and the ground ripped open underneath my bed and swallowed my stupid ass.

We were talking about tsunami relief and how I, too, felt in light of billions upon billions of dollars getting dumped in a place we should not be in the first place all in the name of democracy and showing the world how we're the greatest country ever, the initial $15 mil was a slap in the face. He countered with this: Say he was a millionaire, and one of his friends asks him for help because their crib burned down. He offers $30K, and the friend bitches that's not enough. He could say, "Ok, then I can give you NOTHING. How 'bout that!?" Then he throws out at some point -- I'm not completely clear on the conversation sequence anymore -- the metaphor that the United States is the Oprah of the world, and that's when I said it.

"Well, when Oprah goes to Africa or wherever, she's not trying to spread her agenda ..."

A deadly silence fell over the room, broken only by him saying "Oprah has a fucking magazine and a televiszh ..."

"Yeah, all right, you're right, I choked. You win," I said, trying to think of the best way to cop out of saying something so assinine. I mean, it WAS 5:30 a.m., after all, and I DO have a sinus infection. The mucous could cloud my judgement, right!?!? And hey! He told me I was nuts at one point, and I was rattled by the personal attack! And, and ... yeah. I choked. That's what fucking happened.

Not usually one to let me out of an argument, he hit me with the usual "Don't patronize me," before realizing that after something that stupid? He probably ought to just let it go, because I was too humiliated to go on. I did evenutally recover my dignity when the discussion turned to gay marriage, but still ... oof.

So anway, back to the whole Republican issue and why I'm rattled by it: It's because when I think of Republicans, I've gotten so used to seeing them as people who don't think of why it is they support their party, and he does. In fact, he was the one, when I kept repeating, "I'm still tripping that you're Republican," to say, "You know, that's such a stupid way to look at people." As if I wasn't already humiliated enough.

There are people who cannot say good-byeThey are born this way, this is how they dieThey are the keepers of promises, what moves themdoes not wear out

Their loyalty will tear apart your clocksThese are the people who can hear the music in songsThey are the vow carriersThe grandmothers who always leave the porchlight on

No one is lost to the one who seesThese are the women widowedby the men they never marriedThese are the girls who wait
even when you don't comeThese are the mothers of orphansthey can't turn a fake into an originalThey will hear the prayer in your self-contempt

As distance is measured, people do not endIt is one of those storiesthat cannot be written downexcept across a lifetime of open doors

There is a holding on beyond letting goThere is a reunion in everybody's chestThis is how we come tomake a family from strangersThis is how we light candlesThere are people who will remember you when you meet themThese are the people that you can always call at nightThey are the humans turned angels by your asking

With each separation they go to seed againThese are the men who carried you on their shouldersThis is the one you are lonely forthe one who begins and ends your hungerThis is the man who said "Always"There is a moment of returningon the other side of every leaving

It is not something I can prove to you in languageThis is what we pray aboutWe can kill what we desire and it grows backThere is something that does not wear you outIt is the third part of any two people who joinIt opens and closes

There are people alone who are not apartThis is why we listen to the madman when he speaks

People change but they do not stopThis is how we learn "Forever"These are the people you can count onthey are the keepers of promisesThey are candles lit from each otherThey can teach us eternity

We can get what we give, this is the instructionThere are people who do not say good-byeAs distance is measuredYou are one of them.

Before I launch into my first strip club experience, I think we should all take this moment to commemorate Dec. 7, the day which will live in infamy but for a completely different reason. It's a little-known event as far as history goes (well, until NOW), but on this day, not only did the Japanese invade American soil, but 19 years ago, the Germans invaded the (cough) "Virgin Islands."

(And when I say that, what I really mean is, "My cherry got popped, yo." You know, just in case I was being too historical for you and shit.)

Not much to tell there. My 21 year-old Air Force boyfriend took my virginity in the back of his white 1980 Mustang. It hurt. The end. Oh, and I had on these turquoise (!) and white zebra-striped panties that were too tight, because I thought they were sexy. I was 15. The end.

Anyway, the strip club (and we have the lovely Whitters to thank for this):

It was April 7, 2002, one of the first Cubs games of the year, and the one guy was my date. I was blonde at the time, and the weather was about as shitty as it could be, even for April. The game was cancelled, naturally, so he and I decided that since we were in the city, we were going to bar hop. We started at Bernie's (his favorite place, which is now all yuppified and therefore not as cool, at least to me), then Cubby Bear, then maybe one other place -- or no, I think we ended up just drinking a ton at those two places, then tooling through The Alley, where he picked out a cool pair of Doc Martens that I bought for myself. (They look like this, except they're gold instead of white. V.v. cool.) So we get back in the car to head home all buzzed up when we decide that "Hey! There's two strip clubs five minutes from my crib. You wanna?"

Some background: As many typical guys, the one guy spent a good portion of his 20s frequenting strip clubs -- not like every night, but you know -- and we would talk about his experiences and stuff. And I, being somewhat curious and not morally offended by the industry as a whole, would always joke that he should take me to one. Now was go time.

We pull up next to Deja-Vu Showgirls, which is part of the chain ("1000s of beautiful girls and three ugly ones") but it's the one in Hammond, not the Lake Station one that's so popular in NWI. It was closed, though, so we went a bit further to Our Dolls, which is in the middle of an industrial complex. There were five cars out front, so we were, like, Ok.

You know those old '50s gangster movies with the dark panelled restaurants with the red booths? Put a black-curtained stage with pole dead center, and you had this joint.

Anyway, we sit down and order a couple beers, and the first girl comes out. She had to have been early to mid 20s, Hispanic and attractive ... on the face. The rest of her? Was built like a middle linebacker. With nipple rings. And I think she was rockin' some sort of face paint like a football fan, if I'm not mistaken. Not an ounce of fat on her, mind you, and certainly talented on the pole, but yeah. Middle linebacker. With nipple rings. Which, you know, hey, if that's your deal, God love you. It just isn't either of ours.

So the next one comes out and starts dancing to "Closer" by NIN. She was the goth of the group: Blonde, fried-out hair, skinny as fuck, heroin-chic makeup (or WAS it chic? Couldn't tell), all black garb. I thought she was worse than the first one -- I don't even think she did any pole tricks and just lied on the ground half-dead -- but the one guy decided this was going to be the chick he was going to tip. He got up, and I'm not sure if he was squicked out because he was with me or if for one brief moment the beer goggles came off, because as he put the buck in her skivvies, I'm quite sure his dick shrivelled back up into his body. The body language was just. that. priceless. I, meanwhile, couldn't get past the stripper shoes. I mean, stilettos? Are hot. Seven, eight inch platform stilettos made out of lucite that could house a fish? Not even remotely. Oh, and ol' Courtney Love-stripper did one better and had the seven-inch stacked-heel black granny boots. To this day, I still don't get the appeal.

The third stripper was petite and Asian and talented on the pole, but other than that, I can't remember anything. The fourth one had that whole "I'm-doing-this-to support-my-kid-or-kids" look about her, even though she was the most attractive of the lot. She, however, thought that "Never made it as a wise man ..." song by Nickelback was a perfectly appropriate song to strip to. It is not, and it was at that point we left. The first thing I said to him when we got out? "Ohmigod, I can't get past the shoes."

So then we decided we were going to hit the Lake Station Deja-Vu for a little classier (!) atmosphere. We got as far as the parking lot. The end.Oh, whatEVER.

Some of y'all that I talked to in private (ahem, Merryweather) will recall over the weekend that I said I was quite certain I wouldn't be hearing from the one guy over his birthday. And you know, I should never say things like that, because this morning at 4-ish in the a.m.? He called and said Opie would be dropping him off. Not thinking quickly enough (as it was 4-ish in the a.m. and I was fast asleep prior), I said all right, even though I knew he'd been with his other girlfriend at some point over the weekend. Of course, I bitched about that as well as bitched intermittently on the ride home this morning about various and sundry other things while he was feeling rotten. Oh, and I never really did say "Happy Birthday," either, so THERE. We take our victories where we can. Heh ...? (she says weakly, knowing that it was pathetic, yet really not so much caring). I do wish I'd thought of telling Opie to just crash on the couch before he was like halfway home, but we're hoping he made it home without getting run over by a semi. Oh, and did I mention Cousin Nancy was still here? She found it hilarious, and even better? She didn't narc me out to Crazy Aunt, who would've surely beaten my ass.

Anyway.

Since everyone else and their blogging brethren have talked about tomorrow, I'll throw in my two cents about why I hate Shrub -- in story formation.

So today, Nancy and I took Mother to pick up her new glasses, which look very much like her old glasses, except not as old-lady looking (by that I mean shiny). But see, I picked out the old ones, too -- a fact Mother threw up to me at least 150 times during the course of the afternoon -- but you know how you do choose something and then decide you can do better the next time? Yeah, it was like that: I THOUGHT I was going to like the glasses last year when she got them, but then when she got them, I didn't like them as much. So this year, I chose something else. (And actually, I did choose something completely different from what she had at first, but her bifocals wouldn't fit into them.)

Now, that may sound like it has nothing to do with Shrub and world politics, but here's my point: There's no question that mistakes have been made during this war business -- and are you really going to argue that there haven't? I mean, seriously -- yet Shrub and his crew are all "Stay the course, blah blah blah," and all that other happy horseshit. Now, I don't know about y'all, but when I mistake, I choose a different course of action (at least, I do most of the time), and I don't trust someone who can't or won't do the same. I don't want someone who a) can't admit that they're wrong or b) if they can't admit it, at least change their actions. I mean, fuckin' ask Dr. Phil, man, or Maya Angelou: You did what you did when you knew what you knew; when you knew better, you did better. It's real simple.

My biggest referrer this month, according to my stats, is dreamintegris, which appears to be some sort of intranet site for independent business owners. What independent business owner could possibly be interested in anything I have to say!?!?!

I have to share this story about the one guy, because a) I'm sure he won't mind, as he was damn proud as he told it, and b) it's now Reason #674 why I love him so. Now, y'all might not find it at all amusing, but it made me hot. Damn hot.

There was a reason why his e-mail was down (and it was in fact down, as in "nonexistent down"): Over Labor Day weekend, the crackhead down the street broke into his crib and ripped off his DVD player, his e-mail apparatus and several treasured autographed photos of sports icons he had hanging up. He knew it was the crackhead down the street because said crackhead had already broken into his landlord's crib upstairs and horked shit from him, so after the cops left, he devised a plan. And that plan included a baseball bat.

No, no, he didn't beat the crackhead with the baseball bat. But he DID carry the baseball bat with him every time he left his crib, whether it was to and from the car going to work or taking his dog out for her constitutional in the front yard. He went out there, bat in hand, and stared at the crackhead's house. Now, when he ran into the crackhead, he did threaten to take the bat upside the crackhead's skull if he ever comes near the crib again, but the psychological initimidation part!?!?! Ooooh, baby (shudders).

Yeah, I like my men a little edgy. Speaking of which, anyone catch Boston Legal Sunday? Two words: James. Spader. What a fucking STUD. Reminds me of the deputy prosecutor I dated six years ago. Swoon. Of course, he was a big-time alcoholic and it ultimately would've never worked between us for that reason, but oh, the possibilities ... Desperate Housewives was pretty good, too, especially Felicity Huffman, but she always rocks.

Oh, and btw, the Cubs? Suck. But we had a good time at the game, even if we partied only as "minor starlets" instead of rock stars. No guacamole, either.Oh, whatEVER.

After my crisis this morning, I asked Mr. Rude over at Cactus to take a look at that code to tell me what the hell was going on. (I also asked Kaffy's Winston, too, big radio engineer stud that he be.) And in his kind wisdom, he explained to me that basically, the one's guy's ISP is having issues and I'm a yuge dorky spaz. Well, no, he didn't actually SAY that -- knowing Chris, he prolly didn't even THINK it -- but that's what *I* say. But at least you'll be happy to know (some more than others, ahem) that my dorky spaziness? Lasted about a half-hour -- a mere FRACTION of what it used to before better living through chemistry. Like an infant torn from her momma's arms, I was able to calm myself and realize that I was being a dorky spaz before I went out and made an ass of myself on top of it.

I have NOT, however, rid myself of the urge to use half-ass similes, but what're you going to do?

Ok, so now I have on this one bra, and my girls? Are in. my. armpits, and I'm fascinated and annoyed at the same time. Yeah, TMI, but it ain't right.

Got a lot dancing around in my head today -- much having to do with the one guy and how much I need to see him -- but there's really no time for mush because THE BAND IS PLAYING TONIGHT! Woo! Kerry won't be singing lead this time, but they're kicking out new jams. And Kaffy and Winston are coming, as are Tara and her man Sean, so the band is like "The girls are back together!" (Tara and I were unabashed groupies back in the day.) Oh, and Greta's coming, too, whether she wants to or not.

It was in my purse, and then I when I put my purse down, I heard the phone fly out in to the back seat. But then, when I went to retrieve it, it was no where to be found -- not under my seat, not in the shoebox, not in the bag in which the shoebox was, not in the pants tangled up back there (a couple pairs of pants I've been meaning to return, so relax, man), not on the seat, nothing. Still haven't found it, and probably because if I did, I would want to call the one guy and tell him stuff.

I would want to tell him that it wasn't the yelling tone his e-mail had the other day that freaked me out -- if we'd had that same conversation over the phone, I'd have never thought he was yelling at me, and don't I always tell him to write like he talks, anyway? -- but that he did it at all, and without provocation, because it felt distant, like he was trying to cut away another already tenous chord. I would want to tell him that I miss talking to him and that I wish he didn't feel all weirded out by my feelings. And that really, who the hell am I to judge any "relationship" he thinks he's got going? I mean, Christ, it's not like I don't know what "fucked up" is; at this point? I got it, thanks. Preaching to the choir. Whatever. I'm just here in my little corner living, loving, waiting for the time that maybe I won't be just a monthly stop anymore, like a period or an already-read magazine or whatever. Don't mind me. I wouldn't, however, have told him I love him.

Any of that would've made me look feel like a complete asshole -- you know, the whole "I really hate dealing with emotions, especially my own" thing I have. But I still want to know where my phone went.Oh, whatEVER.

Who knew that, when you pour cold water in a glass bowl over a lit candle, the glass bowl would crack!?!? I should've, because I drove around with a hillbilly windshield for years on the Snowball that happened because of a crack that grew from the weather running moderately to ass-cold. But I clearly forgot, because I just cracked the oil infuser I just bought the other day, too, from one of my favorite little shops, Customs Imports in the Miller section of Gary. (I also picked up a really cool antique Chinese rice bucket that I'm using for magazines.) Damn it. Ladies, y'all know what I'm talking about, right? Anyone know where I could find another little glass bowl for it? Because I've got this awesome Aromatique mango oil that's making me very happy right now on a day that didn't necessarily start out that way. And I still haven't heard from Mer, and that bothers me, too.

But on a funner note, my column about bad dressers at the fair ran today, and that was cool. I set my sights on this woman who was not only wearing a skirt and club top, but 4-inch pink and aqua stiletto mules. I mean, who wears that to the freakin' fair!?!?! But I suppose it could be worse, like the co-worker of Kaffy's who saw a chick riding the rolly coasters at Great America without unnywears under her skirt (shudders).

Just so y'all know, Kaffy's seriously in love with Barack Obama. Not that I'm not -- his speech kicked some serious ass -- but seriously? He looks like the cartoon character Oscar Proud from "The Proud Family."

Oh, and in case you're not keeping up with the comments, here's the Brazilian Whore update: Despite her best efforts, Joelle says that the bitch hand-coded my stylesheet into her shit. Now, I'M not seeing it, even with refreshing my browser, but that doesn't mean bitch didn't do it. So, I e-mailed her and told her I contacted Blogger, and THEY will handle it. And yeah, I did it in piss poor Portuguese, too, but you know what? I don't care, because that's crap, especially when she could've asked permission. Not that I would've granted it, because I love the design and don't want to dilute Joelle's brand, but the polite thing would've been to at least ask, fer Chrissakes.

Next time? The offending ripper-offer gets a huge dick on their page. And not a nice looking one, either; it'll be the skinniest, wussiest wiener I can find. You've been warned.

Not that it isn't quality time when we do talk, because it is; he's wonderfully bright and funny, and we've always had such an easy rapport, even if the rest of the world thinks he's a prickly curmudgeon, which he is, make no mistake. But we talk about once a month, and it's usually pillow talk, and that bugs me (yet makes me happy, too, make no mistake).

If I were a betting broad, my Spidey sense tells me that he may still be "involved," and that he wants to talk to me about that relationship but can't because I've kinda put the kabosh on that. See, I really tried to be a shoulder to him, and sometimes I still really want to -- no, seriously, I do -- because he's my friend, and he doesn't talk to people easily most of the time (again, curmudgeon). But one of two things happens when I do: 1) I get hurt, or 2) if it's not going well, I tend to get all superior, as in "Boo-YEAH, Fucker. Can you FEEEEL me now!?!?!" and although that feels really good, it's not fair to him. It's not even that I want him to hurt as much as it is I want him to know how I feel. But I guess it's easier to avoid me than have a giant elephant sitting in the room with us.Oh, whatEVER.

After stuffing myself senseless at champagne brunch with Mother today, I just got back from doing touch-up painting in Greta's living room (I know, I know, but she waited for me to get home and waited for me to get my ass in gear after I took a nap, for chrissakes. What would YOU do?), where I proceeded to stuff my face with 1/2 a sausage pizza that I definitely did NOT need. Happy Easter, yo.

So, the one guy called last night. He didn't end up coming over, because he got all squirrelly and decided I was too tired. That never usually stops him, but it did last night for some reason. Anyway, after I was completely awake at 2:30 a.m., I called him back, and we had the type of conversation that reinforces for me why I love him insanely.

For one thing, none of his friends truly appreciate -- and certainly none of my friends believe -- how unbelievably brilliant he is. A lot of people think that, because he didn't go to college/makes a living driving a forklift for a liquor company/hasn't reached the point that he absolutely MUST own property, he's your blue-collar jackass just smart enough to get by. And I see their point, because he's almost downright antisocial -- by choice -- in most situations. (He won't cop to that, but it's true.) But at the same time, many of his friends are so self-absorbed that they complete overlook the fact that he's more well-read than they are. Or maybe they know and choose not to acknowledge it, because then it would fuck up the natural order of their shit. Anyway, as brilliant as he his, his mindset is black and white, while mine is ... not-so-much, so we debate and debate and debate and debate forever. But it's not competitive at all; we're genuinely interested in what the other has to say, and I totally dig that. So this morning, we covered foreign vs. domestic cars and the whole Bush thing, among other things. Oh, but he does have it in his mind that Idaho doesn't exist.

Another point? "The pussification of America started when we let kids play soccer without keeping score so they wouldn't have to feel bad."Oh, whatEVER.

It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

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Broad said:
Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on…
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Caterina said:
ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up…
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Wholovesya? said:
By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s…
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Wholovesya? said:
By the by, I’m not the only one I know. I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re…
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Wholovesya? said:
As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have…
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